The book contained many truths, not simply the one that would alter my course. Some of them were of little use to me, and some I did not understand, while knowing them to be true all the same. But one section grabbed my attention, and I knew at once what I would do. I did not think that I would do it if the process worked as the book described. A man does not throw a brick from the roof of a house and consider what he will do if it strikes the ground. The brick will fall. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to test out the principles outlined in the book before I attempted them in the real world.
As I continued to read, my desire to initiate the process redoubled, because the book explained that the methods contained within worked only for the tome’s true owner. It could not be stolen—only given of free will. That my father had truly given the book to me, via his lady, was a thing I doubted. That my father had acquired the book by fair means himself was a thing I considered unlikely. And yet, the book made clear that the words contained within would appear as garbled nonsense to any but its rightful owner. As I could read it, I concluded the book was indeed mine, but I had to know for certain.
I do not recall departing Mrs. Tyler’s house. But evidently, I did so with the book’s warmth glowing under my arm, and the rest of the inheritance as well, for even in my stupor, I did not leave the items of value behind. On my way back to my own boardinghouse, I saw a dead bird in the street, and I scooped it up in my handkerchief while a trio of middling women watched in disgust. What mattered to me their opinion? I would never see them again, and the world was about to change under my ministrations.
I ignored their disgusted stares as I examined the dead creature with its torn wing and twisted leg and missing eyes. Could it be what the book promised would come true? I could not see how, and yet I could not make myself doubt it, not after what I had read.
I went to my room and set the book down upon my writing desk. I then opened my volume to the pages that had so drawn my attention and proceeded to follow the simple instructions outlined therein. The necessary ingredients were to be found in my room and in any ordinary kitchen, and so I stealthily raided the kitchen of the very house in which I roomed. With the needful ingredients in hand, the actions were not overly complicated. Indeed they were fluid and intuitive and ever so easy, and it seemed to me as I went through the procedure that it was the most obvious thing. How had this not occurred to me—to anyone? It was as though no one had ever thought to douse a fire with a bucket of water or to brush a coat to remove lint. Were I to outline the procedure here, in these pages, and those words were to retain their shape in your eyes (which I doubt), you would think much the same, but I shan’t. It is not information you need to possess.
When I finished, there was no delay. The bird hopped upon its feet and began to flutter wildly. Its wing, which before had been torn and half gone, was now whole. Its twisted leg was straight. The missing eyes were returned. It was, for all the world, a healthy and robust creature, chirping with great fury as it flew about my room as would any bird suddenly trapped within doors. I ducked and dove and swatted at it, protecting my eyes and my hair until I was able to open a window and drive it away. Then I laughed, relishing the wonder of it, not seeing the mayhem and chaos as anything at all like an omen.
* * *
The Four Widows had made it something of a habit to gather each Wednesday evening to entertain one another and sometimes guests, though they preferred such time to themselves. Other suitors would often invade these gatherings, but I never did. My father taught me far better than to insert myself where I was not wanted. Sadly, I had no choice but to do so now.
The streets were turning dark as I exited my new lodgings in the Rules of the Fleet, to which I had moved the day I obtained the book. I ducked down several alleyways, crossed streets, ran into taverns and out their back doors, all to make certain no creditors were trailing me, ready to grab me the moment I left the Rules. If that happened, I would be sent to a sponging house and given a day to find friends who could pay my debts. As I had no friends remaining to me, I would then be sent to debtor’s prison and rot there until Parliament passed its next general amnesty for debtors. It could come next month or in ten years. Upon my arrest, my property would be seized and auctioned off, the proceeds split among my tailor and jeweler and brewer and chophouse and sword maker and all the others I owed. The book, at least, would not be among those items, for I had it upon me, but it would do me little good in prison. All of this was to say that I had no choice but to make my scheme work, and quickly, for I could not dodge my creditors forever.
I had seen their agents standing outside my new boardinghouse, waiting for me to leave, waiting for me to wander outside the Rules. Such men did not have endless patience, and they had other clients, other men to hunt, so I did not think it impossible that I might elude them, but even I could be unlucky, as you have already observed. The only cure for poverty, it seemed, was wealth, and I had no choice but to obtain it by any means I could devise.
With the prison looming up upon my left shoulder, and the majesty of St. Paul’s Cathedral before me, I moved along Ludgate Street and then headed back toward Blackfriars, slipping into the darkness of Stonecutter’s Alley toward the wretched stink of London’s great thoroughfare of piss and shit, the Fleet Ditch. My plan was to follow the ditch’s loathsome path back to the bridge, cross over to Fleet Street, and then head to west.
My plan was a success. By the time I entered Stonecutter’s Alley, I knew I had lost any followers. I then followed the course of the ditch, all too aware that I might face more dangers, for only the most wretched and desperate of men haunted such a place. Luck was on my side for once, as no one troubled me. I, however, could not say that I traveled untroubled. As I made my way to the Fleet Bridge, I saw three girls, not twelve years old, shirtless and huddled before a fire built of dried turds. I passed a man in rags, rocking back and forth as he held up his hand, filthy and bloody bandages marking where three fingers had recently been lost. Upon the shore of the Fleet Ditch itself, where its contents had overflowed, I saw a thin man and fat woman rutting like animals, she bent over, he entering her from behind. Neither of them cared a jot for the human excrement and dead rats that pooled about their ankles.
All of these terrible sights steeled my purpose. I would not be like these people. I would not be poor and wretched, little better than a beast in my brutish desire for food and warmth and physical release. I had the means to make my desires a reality, and I would use those means. The cost of refusing to do so was displayed all around me.
I moved with care, avoiding danger and dirt, and so appeared unruffled at Lady Caroline’s house off Golden Square, my box tucked under my arm. I looked like a gentleman, I told myself. I looked far better than most gentlemen. There was no reason I could not be a gentleman. I rang the bell, and I presented a tall and fair-haired young man in livery—the sort of handsome fellow whom widows employed but married ladies did not—with my card and waited.
It was very true that I might be sent away. I even considered it more likely than not. If that were the case, I would follow this visit with a letter, requesting in the most persuasive language a private audience. That was a more dependable course, but I did not wish for these events to unfold so very slowly.
I was made to wait for some time, and I had no doubt that a debate raged within. At last, the handsome servant reappeared and directed me into the parlor, where the Four Widows sat, along with Mr. Langham. All of them stared at me—all but my lovely Caroline, who looked away, her face quite red.
I observed them all, and the beauty of the room, lit with its roaring blaze in the fireplace and dozens of tallow candles in their silver sconces upon the walls and those of the chandelier, interlaced with sparking crystal. Light too danced from the silver and gold of the jewelry around necks and fingers. There were bowls and trays of food and goblets and decanters of drink. There was a fine Turkish rug upon the floor and portraits of friends and ancestors upon the wall.
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What a journey I had made that very night, I thought. From the Rules of the Fleet, in the shadow of the Fleet Prison and bathed in the stench of the Fleet Ditch, to this fine town house, off Golden Square, full of fine people and fine things. Which of these lives did I want? There could be no question.
Susan Harrow cleared her lovely white throat. She sat primly in her chair, her hands upon the lap of a sea-green gown that matched the precise shade of her large and startling eyes. “We were not certain we ought to admit you,” she said, “but we believed you were owed an opportunity, at the very least, to explain yourself.”
“I very much doubt that,” I said, bowing to all of them. “I imagine you admitted me because you thought it would prove amusing. I suspect this decision was made over the objections—spoken or merely silent and obvious—of Lady Caroline.”
She turned away at the sound of her name.
“It is a bit late to trouble yourself with Lady Caroline’s feelings,” said Mr. Langham.
“I hope that it is not,” I told him.
“Then you believe you can clear your name of the charges laid upon you by your father?” said Mrs. Harrow, her tone rich with derision. “Perhaps you will claim that they were lies, and he was not your father at all. Perhaps the fact that no one had heard of you prior to your arrival a few weeks ago is nothing to concern us.”
“He was my father, and they were not lies,” I admitted.
Lady Caroline put a hand to her prim and pretty mouth. She had, I saw now, hoped that I had come to say something that would make all the unpleasantness vanish. Of course I am not a poor scoundrel, I would say. I have merit because I have money, I would say. I loved her because she wished for it, but I began to feel a growing seed of resentment as well. She had money, and I did not, so what did my poverty matter if she loved me? Why must equivalent wealth—or at least family or name or title or some other form of prestige—be of such import if she truly cared for me? I had thought her good and pure and generous, but I began to see she was no so very different than the rest, not even than that harridan Susan Harrow.
I smiled at them all and bowed once more, and thought of the terrible things I had seen on my way to this house. I had seen such things before, of course. Indeed, I had always seen them, but the contrast between that former life and this one filled me with purpose. “The world is a terrible place for those without means, and I hope you will understand that when you consider the deceptive tools I used to attempt to obtain the comforts of life you believe to be yours by right. My feelings toward Lady Caroline were genuine, and they remain so. I fear I could never have attracted her notice had I presented myself as who I am. Perhaps this does not excuse what I did, but I hope it will explain my motives.”
“Then what is your motive for coming here now?” asked Elizabeth Benton, one of the Four Widows. She was a woman of great beauty, but she resented with all her heart that Susan Harrow was considered more beautiful. She might oppose her friend if she believed it could gain her notice and acclaim within her circle, but she would not take a risk unnecessarily. “Surely you did not hope to convince us to readmit you to our society merely because you wish to be among us.”
I had been poor all my life. Money that my father acquired disappeared with astonishing rapidity. I was used to hunger and filth and cold and skin raw from lice and flea bites. I was used to be being beaten and run off and fired upon by pistol and musket. I was used to having nothing in a world where many had something and a few, a golden few, had more than they could ever need. That was the way of things, and it had always been so, and while I might have hated my father for the pain he inflicted upon me and the reckless way he spent our money, I had never before hated the ordering of the world in which I lived. But now, in that parlor, surrounded by their lavish furnishings and their paintings upon the walls, their crystal decanters of wine and their trays of white toast covered with mayonnaise and anchovies, I hated the world for what it had done to me. I hated the way of things. I hated the rich and their opulence and plenty and their disregard for the rest of us. Life, I now saw, wasn’t merely cruel or terrible or painful. It was unfair, and it meant there was a fairness that might be achieved. I could be a force to bring about that fairness. I would make them pay for the greed and selfishness. At that moment, I believed in the justice of my cause, and that made me very dangerous indeed.
I took a moment to collect myself and then I addressed the small gathering. “For you to understand why I have come, I must demonstrate something. I hope you will forgive me and indulge me. What I will do next may seem surprising, but you will soon understand.”
I took the box which had been under my arm, opened it, and dumped upon the floor a lap dog that I had found in the street the night before, perhaps a week dead. It had not been a good week of death, either. Rats had been at the little creature, and they have a particular fondness for eyes. The gray tongue of the beast fell from its lips. Its stomach had been ripped open, and its rotting entrails draped out of it. The stench, I might add, was unlovely, and all hurried to press their handkerchiefs to their faces as the sound of coughing and gagging filled the room.
The ladies gasped. Mr. Langham rose to his feet.
“What do you mean by this?!” the gentleman shouted.
“You will see in a moment,” I said.
“Have you no decency shocking ladies in this manner?! Collect your rubbish and depart!”
I turned to him and met his gaze. “Do you propose to make me do so?”
He said nothing, only glowering at me for a moment before looking away.
“As I suspected,” I said. “Now, I shall proceed.”
Elizabeth Benton now rose to her feet, cloth still pressed firmly to her face. “No you shall not!” she cried, though the force of her words was muffled by a piece of embroidered linen dyed the most exquisite shade of sky blue. “You have abused our hospitality long enough. You have lied to us and played your tricks upon us, and now you come here and behave in a manner so shocking I can scarce believe it. Leave—and never return!”
“Sit down!” I shouted at her. And she did. I did not love to be so forceful with her or with any lady, but I had no choice. Given that I was a thief and a liar, and I had deposited a rotting animal carcass before her, I expected a certain amount of indignation. It was, I believed, only natural. However, I could not allow that indignation to metamorphose into something like authority. Another piece of wisdom I had learned from my father was that when a man took command, others naturally obeyed. I therefore took command, so that they might see what I had come to show.
With the opposition now properly subdued, I smiled most charmingly and cleared my throat. “I am truly sorry you must witness so terrible a thing, but it will not remain terrible for long. You will see the wonder of it soon, and you will forget the horror. Indeed, the sad sight before you will make your surprise and delight all the more exquisite.”
So saying, I crouched over the poor animal, which I had found in the street the night before. I proceeded to work upon it the method I had discovered in the book. I muttered the words and sprinkled the ingredients and followed the procedure rapidly so as to obscure what I did. The more mystery the better, I thought.
In a trice, the dog was upon its feet, yapping happily and dancing about in excited circles. It was no longer decayed and rotting. Its eyes, in their sockets once more, were bright, its limbs whole, and its movements fluid. It was still covered with filth, but there was no helping that. The unpleasant odor that had filled the room was gone as well. All was converted to sprightly, happy things.
The company stared at me. Mr. Langham attempted to say something several times but stammered. At last he managed actual words: “It is a trick. Some kind of terrible trick. You think we wish you here to perform legerdemain for us?”
“It is no trick,” I said. “I have discovered the means to return the dead to life. You all saw the beast, you saw what I did. I could not have smuggled a live creature in here a
nd replaced the dead one. It was dead, and now it is alive. The change was affected by my own hands.”
“And what?” demanded Susan Harrow. “You wish us to pay you for your secret? You think you can perform a parlor trick and we shall shower you with coins? Go see the theater managers. Perhaps they will employ you for the after-show.”
The dog yipped at this. It attempted to jump into Mrs. Harrow’s lap, but she pushed it away as though it were a thing of revulsion. The dog ran away to a corner, hiding behind a divan, and curled up, falling asleep almost at once. Apparently it found the business of revival a tiring affair.
“I do not wish to be paid to perform this act,” I said. “I wish to be paid not to perform this act.”
Lady Caroline, who had been silent throughout all this, now faced me. “What do you mean, precisely, Mr. January? Speak plainly.” Her voice was cold and hard.
“For your sake, I shall. I wish your friends to pay me what I ask, or I shall return their dead spouses to life, and their property shall revert to those returned husbands. You shall be widows no more, but wives, ruled over by your rightful lords. You shall have such money and such things as they see fit. You shall go where they permit, and no other place. You shall enjoy the company only of those acquaintances that they approve. So then . . . should you like to revert to your former states, ladies? If not, I suggest you think what price you would affix to your liberty.”
* * *
They stared at me in horror.
“See here,” began Mr. Langham. “You must be mad if you think—”
I held up my hand to interrupt him. “You inherited your fortune from your father, sir, a rather tyrannical and unyielding man. Believe me, you have my sympathies, for I know what it is to have such a father. I have been told by men who know you that you waited all your life for him to die so you could take possession of his estate. When he returns, that money shall be his once more. Now, all of you, excepting Lady Caroline, must present me with five thousand pounds each or you shall lose everything you have to those from whom you’ve gained it.”
Four Summoner’s Tales Page 18
